Archive of Our Own

Olruggio is always willing to help out a friend, within reason. He'd much rather buy Qifrey dinner or groceries in this case, but Qifrey insists this will help him buy groceries, pay his bills, rent, all the other necessities. Whatever. It'll be an extra ten dollars and change disappearing from his bank account every month; not enough for him to fret over in the short term. He can make an account with one of his burner emails, craft a complicated enough password, set up two-factor authentication so he's less paranoid about the security of the website, follow Qifrey, and log out, permanently, ignoring and ideally forgetting about whatever nonsense Qifrey decides to pull online.

Until Qifrey spams him with multiple texts late at night two weeks later, and Olruggio nearly throws his phone across the room at the first glimpse of bare flesh that extends beyond Qifrey’s waistline. He has to cover his screen with one hand, holding his phone almost horizontally as he pecks out the letters of his response with a finger.

besides, Qifrey adds while Olruggio keeps typing and deleting and retyping his response, it's nothing you haven't seen before.

Olruggio sets his phone down at that one, his nose and lips scrunched into a simmering pout, tapping the side of his phone on the couch cushion until his frustration fizzles out. He can't deny that truth--but he can still argue with it.

That's different, he finally texts Qifrey back. I don't want you sending this stuff to the wrong number for real. Don't do it again.

The next few days are radio silence. Olruggio and Qifrey are both perfectly capable of existing without talking to each other for days on end, but there's still usually a meme thrown around, a song recommendation, a podcast to listen to or an article to read. The lack of notifications--rather, the lack of Qifrey popping up on Olruggio's phone--is enough for him to notice. It's not like he has a large social circle, and he only has one best friend. He finds himself checking his phone when it's been silent, like succumbing to scratching at a mosquito bite when he knows it's best not to, and a weight settles in his chest, knowing even though he didn't mean to cause any harm, an apology is owed.

Still, he drags his feet. Minutes without sleep tick by until he's on his phone in bed at night, and he goes back to his texts with Qifrey, scrolling up to the offending pictures to actually give them a proper look.

It's Qifrey sitting cross-legged on his bed, a sheer, glittering, royal blue shirt falling off his shoulders, seemingly cracking up at the punchline of an unheard joke. Qifrey on his knees, sticking his tongue out in a way more childish than sexy, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his briefs as he starts to drag them down his thighs. Painted brush strokes of a man, white and flesh and blue, presumably rushing to catch the phone or camera that's fallen from its tripod. Olruggio primarily has one thought he can't shake.

Olruggio scoffs, though he's genuinely relieved at the immediacy of Qifrey's response. He feels like he's in a heist movie as he downloads the app a second time now out of incendiary curiosity, cursing himself for his usage of a machine-generated password, fumbling fat-fingered to reset it and finally getting into his account, finding his way to Qifrey's profile. He puts his phone down for a second after looking at the time, the screen dark, wondering if this is even worth it--and tires of debating with himself, opening his screen back up and scrolling through posts and blurred images, one, two, three weeks back until he lands upon the shade of blue he's looking for, a title of "💙✨" and a button prompting him to click to see more. He taps the link.

The screen changes to a crisp image of Qifrey, brighter and sharper than the ones that he had texted Olruggio. It's cropped below his scar, an anonymous mouth grinning above a button-up shirt, the same shirt that had previously resided in Olruggio's closet, showcasing Qifrey's lithe physique, subtle lines of his ribs, flat stomach, mere inches of a darker, opaque fabric covering his crotch and the tops of his thighs. The next picture is the shirt half-unbuttoned, Qifrey biting his thumb, grabbing his crotch. Next, Qifrey's bare back is to the camera, Olruggio's shirt fallen around his elbows, tugging his underwear just below the curve of his perfect little ass. New angle, Qifrey on his back looking up at the camera, though his eyes are still obscured. Olruggio's shirt twined between his thighs, a section of gossamer fabric covering and casting his soft cock in blue shadow. Qifrey spreads his legs next, holding the shirt against his stiffening cock, though not obscuring it completely.

Olruggio swipes down for more, but he only gets a thank you message and a promise to update again next week. He pushes his head back into his pillow with a curse and a pulse of heat in his groin, absentmindedly rocking his hips against his mattress. He chews his lip, thumbing over to their texts, holding his breath in his chest at Qifrey uncropped and genuinely smiling in the middle of his photoshoot, and switches back to the app. There's always more.

And there is more. Qifrey in a black leather harness and buckles and straps that wrap around his waist and his hips and his thighs. Qifrey, slowly getting dressed this time, putting on a suit, the camera focusing on his calves above his dress socks, his wrists as he adjusts his cufflinks, his knuckles and his Adam's apple as he fixes his tie. Qifrey, in lacey stockings and garters. Qifrey washing himself, the water tinted seafoam with threads of turquoise and yellow from a bath bomb. His most identifying feature is hidden in each scene, eyes covered with a splash of water in the bath set, a matching blindfold to accompany the lingerie, always artful.

There's thought put into the theme of each post, Qifrey a jack of all trades for his audience, which--Olruggio raises his eyebrows at the follower count--may just follow him for the variety. Some are more explicitly kinky, some more creative, though none are lacking in sensuality, nor are they entirely as pornographic as Olruggio had once imagined. Not that that's stopped him from keeping one hand on his cock as he's scrolled through Qifrey's photos--that's the point, right? Naturally, the next thought that follows is that he isn't the first person to jerk off to photos of a semi-naked or naked Qifrey, which gives him pause. A twinge of jealousy, maybe, but not enough to distract him from the reimagined, very real, physical memories of putting himself into the heat of Qifrey's mouth, of bending him over at the waist and--loses to the blissful fever of jerking off.

He turns his bedside lamp on. He's just spent the past half-hour looking at photos like this--he can take a decent-enough selfie looking into the camera, holding his dick, come spilled over his stomach, his cheeks pink as he struggles to not put too much thought into it.

He finds the courage to press send and promptly drops his phone after, as if touching a hot stove, burying his face into his pillow with embarrassment. His phone buzzes back at him:

The three dots of Qifrey typing hop over each on a seemingly infinite loop, the minutes stretching, long enough for Olruggio to get up and walk to the bathroom to actually clean himself up. His phone starts to vibrate in a slow circle on his countertop as he wets a washcloth; Qifrey's calling. Olruggio wedges his phone between his shoulder and his ear, sitting atop his closed toilet seat. Both of them seem to be waiting with baited breath. Olruggio exhales.

"Hey."

"Hi, Olly," Qifrey answers, a sleepy, mystified whisper. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No I'm, um, taking care of that right now." Olruggio clears his throat. "I looked at your pictures. Not just the ones you texted me, but some of the sets you posted online. You, uh, put a lot of effort into those." Fuck, he feels like he's losing his basic sense of linguistics. "Didn't go unappreciated."

"I'm happy someone enjoys them," Qifrey laughs, a light purr in his ear. "Well, a lot of people do, it seems. But none of them are allowed to send me pictures of their reactions."

"Yeah, a lot of people do," Olruggio echoes. "Sorry if that was unwarranted."

"Unwarranted, but not unwanted." Olruggio can hear the smile, the smug vindication in Qifrey's voice. "Are you jealous, Olruggio?"

"I can't tell?" Olruggio answers honestly. He drops the damp towel into his lap, pushing a hand through his hair. "I don't know if it's my place to be."

"Maybe not. Doesn't mean I can't be curious."

"Pact knows you act like that's your job," Olruggio can't help the comment, rolling his eyes, but he smiles. His voice softens. "I was--I was wondering if you were available."

"Physically, or emotionally?" Olruggio nearly cusses Qifrey out at the tease, but there's kindness in the words that follow. "For you I am available in my entirety.”

"So," Qifrey needles a moment later. "Which set was your favorite?"

"I don't know," Olruggio cracks, turning off the bathroom light and heading back to bed. "You should send me more outtakes so I can make a more educated decision."

"Oh, you know I would be more than happy to indulge you."